Claudia's Big Break (3 page)

‘Thanks for the moisturiser,' said Tara, taking the glass jar out of its box. ‘It may actually save my skin from getting the life sucked out of it by the plane's airconditioning. But we've talked about this, Claud. It's very generous, but you can't afford it. You have to start saving money.'

‘It was taunting me —'

‘— and you just had to buy it?'

I nodded and set about taking off my shoes and replacing them with the thin navy airline socks. ‘Other than my spending habits, what are you thinking about?' I had a fair idea. Tara was probably thinking,
What the hell am I doing sitting next to Levi in
economy on a horrendously long flight to Europe?
She wasn't his godmother, after all.

‘Looking around for howling children,' she replied, pointing to three in our vicinity before taking a sip of her lukewarm chardonnay. ‘That, and inspiration.'

‘Ah. Inspiration is a tricky thing. You can search for it everywhere and still come up with zip.' I picked at my peanuts. ‘The magazine?'

‘What else? I never had any intention of staying longer than three months and now look at me — five thankless years.'

Tara was the senior features editor at
Modern Interiors
, a monthly lifestyle magazine that devoted several pages an issue to the latest cushion colours, fabrics, textures and stuffings from all over the world.

‘You're very knowledgeable about . . . cushions.'

She rolled her eyes. ‘I left the office yesterday praying I'd never have to go back again.'

‘You hate it that much?'

‘Claud, I'm almost forty.' Tara shook her head. ‘I'm terrified of spending the next thirty years in a tragic state of repetitive boredom.'

‘That's not going to happen. Once you write your novel.'

Tara frowned. ‘What? Write a Regency romance, a sweeping saga with a handsome hero —' ‘But the hero has to die,' Sophie chimed in.

‘Definitely, but only after he's saved the baby.'

‘Yeah. People love that,' agreed Sophie. ‘Or serial killers. People love reading about sociopaths, too. Look at Stieg What's-His-Name.'

Tara sighed. ‘Larsson. There will be no babies or serial killers in my novel.'

‘Maybe you should rethink that,' I said. ‘You are running out of time, after all. Although I'm closer to middle age than you and I don't know what I'm doing with myself. I still act like I'm twenty-two.'

‘Mmm,' said Tara knowingly.

‘Meaning?'

‘Nothing. You're okay,' she conceded. ‘Considering you're a bit irresponsible, never exercise and don't have any restraint when it comes to tequila or chocolate.'

‘Gee, thanks. And just think, we've got two whole weeks in which to idly dissect our unsatisfactory careers, tragic love lives and expanding flabby regions.'

‘Touché,' said Sophie.

‘Peanut?' I said, holding out my handful of nuts.

‘God, no.' Sophie shuddered as Tara grabbed a few. ‘Just the thought of eating nuts'll add ten kilos to my thighs.'

‘You must be kidding,' I said. ‘You've always been a size eight. That is, apart for the week before Levi's birth when you
ballooned
to a small size ten.'

Sophie's fat talk was a familiar tango we'd danced around since high school. Back then, we'd experimented with new diets and reinvented old ones like the Israeli Army diet — two days, green apples; two days, cheese. Not nutritious or smart, but we did it. I usually bowed out after the first day, but when it came to abstaining from food, Sophie had amazing willpower. The Lemon Detox was her friend. She could stay on it for days and still not be tempted by hot chips. But come the end of a diet, Sophie could single-handedly start a twenty-first century potato famine.

‘Don't remind me. I was the size of an overweight hippo.'

Just then Levi flung himself across Sophie and directly onto Tara, causing her to spill wine over her black T-shirt.

She pulled the clinging wet material away from her chest. ‘Great. That's just great.'

‘I'm so sorry,' said Sophie, handing Tara several tissues from her handbag. ‘Levi, why can't you just sit still?' He squirmed and propped his head up on a miniscule airline pillow against Sophie's shoulder.

‘It's okay,' replied Tara, even though she looked as though she would have loved to have whacked him over the head with a blunt instrument. Instead, she stood up, pulled her thick dark hair into a high ponytail, climbed over the top of me and stalked as best she could along the narrow aisle to the tiny bathroom.

Sophie leant across Tara's vacant seat. ‘See! I told you. I should be at home baking cakes, like all good mothers do, not flying halfway around the world to sun myself in Santorini.'

‘It was an accident. We'll have a great time, you'll see.' How hard could looking after a three-year-old be? Three adults taming one child. Surely the odds were in our favour.

‘Yeah, you're right. It'll be great. I probably won't want to come home again . . . Not that Alex would notice either way.'

‘That's not true and you know it. He's just busy, that's all.'

‘Story of my life.'

She had a point. Alex was a decent guy and was happy for her to have this holiday, but he did work long hours and travel frequently. This week, for example, he was in Melbourne. The upside of having a workaholic for a husband was that Sophie had a gorgeous home in Hamilton and a holiday house at Kingscliff, favourite hangout of TV celebrities. She also had magnificent jewels, not to mention the latest designer clothes and accessories. I gazed lovingly at Sophie's Prada bag while patting my Oroton wannabe (another impulsive purchase — this season's
must-have
red snakeskin oversized clutch).

‘If I didn't come home I bet it wouldn't take Alex long before he'd be partying with glamour girls and scantily clad women wearing thongs, with nothing but sequins covering the nipples of their cosmetically enhanced breasts.' Sophie gulped her wine. ‘Or worse! What if he went back to bloody Harriet? I still dream of breaking into her house in the middle of the night, shaving her head and cutting up her Carla Zampatti clothing collection.'

Harriet was Alex's pearl-wearing, blonde-bobbed first wife and mother of Alex's fifteen-year-old son, Jake. I'd only met her a couple of times but on each occasion her pretentious palaver left me in giggles. I couldn't take her seriously. She was as elegant as a coldsore.

‘Claud, can I get past you?' said Tara, who was pinned uncomfortably next to a dinner trolley in the aisle. ‘And the flight attendant wants to know if you want more wine. God knows, I do.' Tara pushed past me and sat down. Her shirt was almost dry but she smelt like a wino.

‘You know,' said Tara, after buckling her seat belt and gratefully accepting more chardonnay, ‘I did think about packing a set of clothes in my carry-on. Everyone tells you to. I even wrote an article, “Essential Travel Tips”. Rule number one: always fly with a clean set of clothes in your hand luggage, should any unforeseen accidents occur.' Tara briefly glared at Levi. ‘And only a couple of hours into the flight. Who'd have thought?'

I smiled at Levi then whipped out my Sponge Bob pencil case full of pencils and crayons. ‘Look what I have. Colouring books! Which one do you want first? Woody or Buzz?' I held up both books and he pointed at Buzz Lightyear. ‘My favourite, too,' I said, handing the book and pencils over to Tara to pass down the line to him.

‘Thank you,' Sophie mouthed.

I reached across Tara and patted her arm, then turned back to Tara. ‘Remember the flight to Honolulu, where we wrote down all our fears and hopes?'

‘As we hurtled towards thirty,' said Sophie.

Tara sighed. ‘Please don't tell me we have to play that game again.'

I poked my tongue out. ‘Spoilsport.'

Tara shrugged. ‘I was still getting over my divorce.'

‘And I'd just met Alex,' remembered Sophie. ‘Working in corporate law, on the fast track to becoming a partner.' Pause. ‘So much has happened in the last ten years.'

I'll say. Back then, I was selling media space for an advertising firm. It would be another four years before I got my dream job as an events coordinator in the food and wine industry.

‘And then again, so much has stayed the same,' Tara chimed in. ‘I'm still writing for magazines, albeit a different one now.'

Different? I certainly thought my life would be different by the time I turned thirty, let alone forty and that was only a year away. As much as I wanted to forget, my thirty-ninth birthday was in a few days' time. Somewhere along the line, my twenties and thirties had disappeared in a murky haze of office jobs (aside from the fabulous stint as an events coordinator), unsuitable shags and superficial spending. When I was younger, I'd assumed that by this stage of my life I'd be settled and have a couple of kids.

Instead, I was living with Tara, broke and alone. I didn't even own a cat.

‘I always wanted to be a writer,' said Tara.

‘You are. A damn good one, too.'

‘But the years are slipping away. It's hard when I'm writing about furnishings five days a week. When I get home at night, I'm just not inspired to keep writing. Maybe I'm not as keen as I keep telling myself.'

‘But you are,' I said. Tara had dreamt of writing a novel since she was at school and she had journals full of notes. ‘You've had short stories published,' I continued, squeezing her hand. ‘You'll see. Once you get to Santorini, it'll come together. You just have to believe in yourself.'

She snorted before popping on her eye mask and resting back into her seat, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

‘I wanted to be a famous fashion designer,' said Sophie. ‘How did I wind up practising law?'

‘Um,' I said, mumbling into my peanuts, ‘I kind of lost my way after the frog thing.'

Sophie shook her head and sighed. After settling Levi (I promised to switch seats with Sophie and play Snap with him after his nap), she put on her eye mask as well. How she managed to do it without completely messing up her hair entertained my thoughts for several moments. Tara's hair was all over the place.

Following my friends' lead, I reclined my seat to maximum (much to the annoyance of the budding
Biggest Loser
candidate behind me) and donned an eye mask, as well as ear plugs, in an effort to block out extraneous noises. But I couldn't get comfortable. My mind was racing, leapfrogging from one thought to another. Truth was, I was pinning all my hopes on this holiday giving me some much needed direction in my less than scintillating professional and personal life. I wouldn't go so far as to say I was soul-searching, but I really needed to get some perspective. I didn't want to arrive at seventy and wonder what the hell it had all been for.

You see, my life had changed dramatically four years ago when I'd fallen in love with gorgeous George. He was in the navy and I couldn't resist a handsome man in uniform (or out of one for that matter). After we'd been dating for three months, he suggested I move into his luxury city apartment. I was head over heels in love, so I jumped at the chance. I was thirty-five and certain he was the one. Before I knew it, I'd given notice on my flat in Toowong, put my furniture into storage and become happily ensconced in George's magnificent thirteenth-floor apartment with spectacular city and river views. Of course, I neglected to pay attention to the finer details of the arrangement: namely that the monthly rent was more than my monthly salary — before tax — and that George expected I'd contribute half. But I didn't mind. I was in love and the apartment was seriously stunning.

It was all dreamy for the first couple of years; so good, in fact, I went off the pill. My biological clock was clanging away, especially as Sophie already had little Levi. I had visions of us having babies and basking in the glory of motherhood together.

George seemed keen enough — not for marriage, but certainly about the possibility of us having a baby together. However, less than a month after we made the decision, he got shipped out to sea on a naval exercise. ‘But only for three months,' he promised.

Well, three months quickly turned into four and, soon after, his monthly rent payments stopped. Not only was I alone but I was paying out way more money than I was earning, what with rental, utilities and George's car repayments (I know, so foolish!).

When I mentioned the topic of rent in my emails and fortnightly phone conversations with him, he responded by saying he'd send through his share. And I didn't doubt him. We were in love. We were going to have a baby when he returned. But still, I was racking up enormous debts and becoming increasingly anxious, especially as I'd only recently started working at Cassoli Imports.

My bank even rang Marcus to check I was gainfully employed. I'd taken out several largish cash advances, which the manager had no hesitation in blabbing about to Marcus. Talk about privacy issues.

Two days after George arrived back after being away eight months, our relationship was over and I was in massive sexually transmitted debt — and there wasn't anything I could do about it. George may have been a fraud and a swindler, but nobody had forced me to pay his rent and car loan repayments. I was a schmuck.

Then there was Marcus. After George, I was at a really low point. But I hit absolute rock-bottom when I found out George was getting married, not more than six months after he dumped me. Despite my debt, I spent even more money. Marcus seemed to understand and I came to regard him as a friend, not just my boss.

I knew he was married but, until he mentioned it, had no idea he was separated. It suddenly made sense why he put in long hours at the office. He didn't want to go home to an empty house. At first I felt sorry for him, but then I started thinking about him more and getting distracted when he walked past my office or I heard his voice.